


I'm In Love With A Stripper

by crossingwinter



Series: The Stripper AU No One Asked For [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, PWP, The Stripper!AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arya hires a stripper for Sansa's bachelorette party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm In Love With A Stripper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/gifts).



There’s a knock on the door, and before turning the handle Arya calls loudly, “Who is it?”

“It’s the police.  Open up,” comes a voice.  It’s a low voice, gruff, and Arya is glad she can hide a smile as the other women in the room hush up, suddenly nervous.

She opens the door.  “Hello, Officer.  How can I help you?” she asks, keeping the grin out of her voice.

The first thing she notices are his pecs, since they are eye level and practically bursting through the cheap, blue cotton button-down.  Then she looks up to see his face.  He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a stern expression and for a moment, Arya feels like she might be afraid.  She’s sure that the people behind her are—they can’t see how tight his shirt is, and—she notices when she drops her eyes, carrying on the act of nervousness—how tight his pants are.  Jesus she can see a bulge and it’s a really sizeable one.

“I hear that someone here has been very bad lately.”  He pushes his way past her and takes off his sunglasses.  “I’m looking for Sansa Stark.”

Arya turns in time to see Sansa go pale and she raises her hand to her mouth because if she doesn’t look horrified she’ll burst out laughing.

She had promised Sansa no funny business.  None at all.  But everyone knows that for bachelor parties, the men go to strip clubs...so it only made sense that she get Sansa a stripper.

Per the agreement with the company, Arya turns on the music, and he rips off his shirt and begins to dance.  The tension in the room evaporates and Jeyne lets out a whoop of pleasure.  Sansa’s face is mortified—completely scarlet—redder by far than her hair, as he dances.  

Arya practically keels over laughing enjoying how he pushes into Sansa’s personal space, runs a finger up her neck. Sansa can’t look away, and he’s practically straddling her now, and he rips off his pants as well, and Arya gets a full view of his ass in the tightest black underpants she’d ever seen.

He’s very well muscled—very, with little ripples on his back moving with his chest.  She can see dimples in his ass as he moves, and his thighs are chorded with enough muscles to make a horse jealous.  He jumps, and turns around, and is now waving his butt in Sansa’s face, his own turned to look over her shoulder and gauge her reaction and Arya sees slabs of muscles on his stomach—more than a six-pack, though she can’t quite count them, and pecs so defined she could probably bounce a quarter off of them.  Jeyne reaches over Sansa’s shoulder and smacks his rear and she hears him make a hiss of pleasure and it goes right to Arya’s groin.  And oh god—she’s really enjoying watching the way he moves his hips—crouched low, swiveling them, moving them left and right, back and forward, as smooth as a snake and—the outline of his cock against his underpants almost makes her want to sit down.  

She hadn’t known what she was going to get when she’d called up Mott’s Party Goers—but she has definitely gotten her money’s worth.

Jeyne reaches over again and tugs and, from the sounds of appreciation that Sansa’s friends are making, brings the elastic of his underpants down below his butt cheeks.  Arya is certain that Sansa would bury her face in her hands if she could, but she can’t bring herself to move them because they might touch his skin.

“Nice one,” Shireen says to Arya, coming over and standing next to her.

“Thanks,” Arya grins.

“You had us all there for a moment.”

“I do my best,” Arya says smugly.  She returns her eyes to the stripper, who is now facing Sansa again, his ass completely bare and facing her and Shireen now, and, “God, but that ass though.”

Shireen snorts.  “It’s fine.  But he looks a little too much like my Uncle Robert for my taste.”

“Girl, appreciate what he’s got and ignore his face,” suggests Arya, licking her lips.

“That’s why I’m over here,” Shireen says with a low voice.  “It’s easier from a distance.”

Arya hadn’t noticed his face when he’d come in.  It had been partially obscured by the sunglasses, which he has now placed on Sansa’s face—a boon, Arya thinks, for it let her hide her embarrassment some.  Also she looks damn good in aviators.  But when he turns around again, and begins removing the briefs entirely, she notices his eyes—spots of clear blue on his face.  And almost as though he knows she’s staring at him, he locks eyes with her, and Arya feels her heart pounding in her throat because those eyes—there is something about them—something sad, and determined, but also something good-humored and warm and she wonders what it would be like to see them up close, to watch them grow hooded and lazy as he bent to—the eyes are gone.  He’s turned around again, and the women cheer and Sansa makes a quiet noise of protest and the moment is over.  Arya doesn’t even get a chance to look at his cock once he is completely naked because she had been too busy staring at his eyes.  

“Yeah—way too much like my Uncle Robert,” sighs Shireen.  “But—all the same.  Well done.  I’m sure everyone else here is very pleased.”  There is another cheer, and Shireen smiles good-naturedly.

When he is done dancing, he does a round of shots with them, relaxing and letting Jeyne sit on his knee as he asks them all questions.

“I’m going to kill you,” mutters Sansa.

“Good—because that means the boy won’t,” Arya teases, kissing her sister’s cheek.

“He wouldn’t dare.  Because you’re mine.  I—I said no funny business,” she says weakly.

“Sansa—it’s your bachelorette party.  The whole point of these things is to do stupid things and make as many dumb penis jokes as possible.  Surely that includes...you know...penises.”

She casts a purposeful glance at his cock, then wishes she hadn’t.  The three times that she had that evening, she’d felt a falling sensation in her stomach, and heat rising in her cheeks and god above, she isn’t that kind of a person who just looked at naked people and got aroused.  She isn’t.  And on principle, it is some sort of objectification...but at the same time...it is a really nice cock.  Big, and clean, and circumcised, and not too weirdly purple the way that penises are sometimes.  

Sansa rolls her eyes.  “All the same—I don’t know.  It’s fine.  He’s perfectly nice.  But…”

“Everyone’s enjoying it, Sansa,” grins Arya.  “Have another drink and enjoy it.  The next naked penis that you’re going to see that isn’t going to be your hubby’s will probably be your son’s—so enjoy some good objectification while you can.”

“That’s why I’m here, after all,” he calls over to them.  “One last look.”  He winks, and Sansa blushes furiously.  

“Gendry,” Myrcella says, leaning over and smiling up at him.  So that’s his name—Arya hadn’t known how to ask.  She can’t really look at him without blushing or getting stuck in trying to find the right description for the exact shade of his eyes.  “Will you dance for us again?”

“Why of course, Princess,” he replies with a roguish grin, and he is up on his feet, dancing again, swiveling his hips in that way that should be illegal and which was altogether wrong while being so very right, and Myrcella blushes furiously, but grins like a maniac as his cock swings in her face.

The night wears on—with Sansa’s friends getting increasingly drunk.  Arya keeps herself sober, knowing that she’ll have to put them all in cabs later.  It does not take her long to notice that Gendry doesn’t do more than two shots, and that the more drunk Sansa’s friends get, the more forced his grin becomes as they grab hold of his arm, his chest, his leg, and even, at one point, his cock.  Arya sees him checking his watch out of the corner of her eye and she feels a pang of guilt—this could really hardly be fun for him.  For all that men made comments about how wonderful it was to have attention from women—she realizes that this isn’t how he wanted the attention.

She calls cabs, sending drunken party-goers home, and at close to two in the morning, she helps an extremely drunk Sansa into bed.  When she comes back out into the living room, he is putting on his clothes again, and Arya went to her purse. 

“Do you need me to call you a cab?” she asks as she hands him several hundred dollars in cash.  

“Nah—I drove,” he says, shrugging.  “Thanks though.”

“Thank you,” she says.  “I—” what else could she say?  Sorry to put you through that?  Thanks for having a great dick?  For letting all of us ogle you like that?

“No problem,” he says, extending his hand.  She shakes it and opens the front door for him.

When he’s gone, she leans against the wall, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes and watching as stars explode on the inside of her eyelids.  And—in the midst of the explosion, is Gendry’s penis.  She grins to herself.  It really had been very—

There is a knock on the door, and she glanced out of the window.  He was back on the front porch, wearing a thick dark sweatshirt now.  “Hey—what’s up?” she asks.

“My car won’t start,” he sighs.  “I think the battery died.  Do you have jumper cables?”

Arya inhales through her teeth.  “I don’t.  I usually borrow my cousin’s when I need them.  He’s just down the street.   I could try breaking into his car—but that might end embarrassingly.”

Gendry exhales slowly.  “Yeah—then I guess that cab might be good then?  I can come by in the morning with cables.”

“I’ll be around all day,” Arya says, tugging out her phone.  “Come  by any time.”

“Thanks.”

“You can wait inside if you like.  I have some cleaning to do.”

“That would be nice.  It’s a bit chilly out.”  She lets him and he goes and sits on her couch while she calls the cab company one last time.  

“They’ll be forty-five minutes,” she says, pressing her cell phone to her collar bone.  “I could drive you if you like.”

“You’re the blue volvo?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve blocked you in.”

“Balls.”

“Yeah...little bit,” he smiles sheepishly.  Arya confirms the cab then asks, “Do you want a coffee?  Or water?”

“Water would be nice—thanks.”

“Of course,” and she goes quickly into the kitchen and fills a glass for him, then begins making her way around the living room, putting cushions back on chairs and collecting empty glasses and bottles. 

“Anything I can do to help?” he asks.

“Nope.  I’ve got it,” she smiles.

“It feels weird not helping,” he points out.

“I’ve got it,” she repeats, putting glasses in the dishwasher and bottles and cans in the recycling.  “Besides, there’s not much left to do apart from vacuuming, and I don’t want to wake Sansa.”

“Got it,” Gendry replies.  Then a moment later, he asks, “When’s the wedding?”

“Next week,” she says,  “A week from Saturday.”  She comes over with her own glass of water and sits down in a chair across from him.  

“She seems like a nice person,” he says.  “A lot of brides...they...yeah.”

“She’s a daisy,” Arya says, shrugging.  “though I must say—she’s a bit of a Bridezilla, so I’ll be glad when all this is over.”

“How do you know her?” he asks, clearly curious.  Arya almost laughs.

“I’m her sister,” she replies.

“Her—” he stops short, his eyebrows rising.  “Sorry.  I—”

“No.  It’s fine.  We don’t look alike,” Arya shrugs.  “I get it a lot, actually.”

“So you’re her maid of honor, then?” Gendry asks.  “Or this is just,” he waved a hand, “Sister duty?”

“Maid of honor,” Arya confirms.  “And sister duty, I suppose.”  

He is nodding and smiling and it’s a nice smile.  It makes the skin around his eyes crinkle slightly and she likes anything that has to do with those eyes.

“Do you usually work wedding stuff?” she asks.

He snorts.  “Yeah.  Bachelorette parties and birthday parties.  Pays well,” he says casting her a sideways glance.  “Pays well—or I wouldn’t...yeah.”

Arya frowns slightly as she nods.  “I can only imagine.  I—”  What could she say?  It would feel so disingenuous, so hypocritical to say anything, given that she was the one who had fucking contracted him.  But at the same time—not to say something feels even worse.  “You don’t like it,” she says.  “I mean—it was obvious I just—yeah I wanted to say thanks, because even if you don’t like it, they had a great time, but I feel bad also, because I wouldn’t want to put you through—to make you feel—I don’t know.”

His smile is tired and he takes a deep breath.  “Look—I need the money.  I know exactly what it is,” he lets out a quiet, solitary, ‘ha’ as if laughing at a joke that only he really understood, “And no—I don’t like it.  It’s also not my only job, and I need the money.  So there we are.  If I had other options, I’d do those instead—trust me.  But for now—thanks for the cash.”  He patted the pocket of his sweatshirt.    “But—It’s nice of you to say.  Most people don’t.  Or they’re scared to when they look at it too closely.  Most of them don’t look too closely.”

“What—what do you want to do?” she asks him.

He looks up and god, how blue his eyes are, a pale blue, so unlike Sansa’s and her mother’s blue—much more, now that she sees them close, like Robert Baratheon’s eyes.  He definitely looks like Robert—much too much like Robert and Arya had a sudden sinking feeling in her stomach.  She knows exactly what Uncle Robert is like—it had been his philandering that had led to the breakup of his marriage.  And—worse, he was shit at supporting his by blows.  Her heart aches suddenly.

“I’d love to be a teacher,” Gendry sighs.  “But I know that’s never going to happen.  I couldn’t finish college because I didn’t have enough money and now I’m a stripper.”  He let out a bark of bitter laughter.  “Yeah—never going to happen.  I work a mechanic job too.  That’s fine, I suppose.  But yeah.  It kind of sucks...not really having a life goal.  Doesn’t incentivize anything.”  He frowns.  “What do you want to do?”

“I’m a data analyst.  It’s fucking boring.  But it pays well.”

“It must,” says Gendry, looking around the room appreciatively, and Arya blushes.  “That’s not a bad thing.  I mean—I’m jealous.  Not, of course, that that jealousy makes any difference.  But still.”

“Are you going to try and go back to school?”

“Hitting me with the hard questions, I see?” He is grinning—teasing her.  He is actually teasing her. 

“Well,” she snaps, “What else am I supposed to ask?”

He laughs.  “I don’t know.  I’m sure you’d think of something.  Yeah.  I’m saving up to go back to school.  The mechanic stuff pays my rent.  This—” he pats the pocket of his sweatshirt again, “goes into the kitty for tuition.  I have three more semesters, and it would be good to do them in one go if possible.  Then I’ll be ok.  I can do...I don’t know—something.  I’m a math major, and you can do whatever you want with that.”

Arya nods blankly.  

They talk quietly until the cab comes, and when she opens the door for him again, she feels a slight pang of sadness that he’s leaving.  How odd—that she’d feel so...she’s not sure.  Then, a thought occurs to her and she passes him one of her business cards.  “If you ever want to get dinner—call me?” she says.  “After the wedding,” she adds.

He takes the card, looking at it for a moment, then says, “You’re just being nice.  And I appreciate that.  But...you don’t really want to get dinner with a…” he gestures towards himself.  

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t interested.  You’re nice,” she says.  “If you’re not interested, that’s fine.  I don’t take offense.”  His eyes flicker between hers and a small smile crosses his face.  He puts her card into his pocket, waving as he makes his way down the steps.

* * *

The next time Arya opens her door for Gendry, their lips are still connected and it had been really really difficult getting the door unlocked since he seems determined to kiss her senseless before they’ve even made their way inside.  Her proposition of coffee has completely vanished from either of their minds as he kicks the door shut behind them and they stumble across her living room.  She slides her hands up his chest, and pushes open his jacket, sliding it down his arms so that it hits the floor with a soft thump, while he fiddles with the buttons of her cardigan, his hands cupping her breasts as he does and sending shivers down her spine.  

They land on her couch with a soft _fwump_ and his lips are on her neck, his hands fisting in her hair and she does her best to shift so that he’s lying between her legs, the fly of his zipper—and that bulge, growing bigger against her with every passing second—pressed at just the right angle between her legs.  Her skirt rides up, and she feels the heat through the cotton of her underpants—the sturdiness of his erection as his hips undulate above her and the image of him shimmying in just his black briefs fills her head and she knows exactly what the motion looks like and grins into his lips.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, almost breathless.

“Nothing’s funny—just good,” she whispers and kisses him again, wrapping her legs around his waist so that he carries her with him as his hips rock above her, and oh—she’s getting carried away, carried away by all of this, by the warmth of his chest, the pounding of her pulse in her ears, the taste of him—a little bit wine-y from dinner, a little bit sweet from dessert but mostly that indescribable flavor that comes from saliva, from one person alone and not from everyone and oh—his mouth tasted fine.  So very fine, and his lips moving over hers, moving with hers, nipping at her top lip, then at her bottom, then snaking his tongue into her mouth and massaging hers, probing her mouth as though he needed to taste every corner of it—that is more fine than she could even articulate and she moans into his mouth.  She feels his lips quirk into a grin.

“What’s so funny?” she asks.

“You,” he whispers and kisses her again, first on the lips, then sweeping across her cheek, up her hairline, down her nose, over her eyelids and all she can do is try and reach his neck with her lips, press a kiss to his adam’s apple as it bobs just above her.  She presses her pelvis up against his, her legs tightening around his hips and slides her hand down to the waistband of his jeans, toying with the hem of his t-shirt. 

“Oh, you’re asking for trouble,” he whispers.

“I like trouble," she retorts and there they are again—those blue eye that don’t seem blue right now because it’s dark in her living room but they’re still lighter than black and, to prove her point, she kisses him and slips her hand up the bottom of his shirt, lifting it so as to bare his stomach above her, letting her fingers trail in the grooves of his muscles.

Quicker than she could have imagined, than she wanted to believe, he sits up—sits them both up and she lets out a startled cry that makes him grin again.  His hands are resting on her ass, underneath her skirt, kneading into her underpants, gently lifting her so that her cunt is rubbing right up against—ah fuck—and her eyes are rolling into the back of her head because that feels amazing, he feels amazing, and she pushes his t-shirt up higher so that she it made an arch over his chest. She pushes it up higher and pulled her lips from his, but he doesn’t lift his arms so that she can take it off.  He raises an eyebrow at her and, very purposefully, lifts her hips slightly so that she rubs once more up the length of his cock.  

“You’re evil,” she mutters.

He laughs, but his laughter turns to a gasp when she drops her lips to his nipple and scrapes her teeth over it, sucking it, drawing it into her mouth then circling her tongue over it.

“Look who’s talking,” he manages, letting her hips fall again and releasing her.  She doesn’t move her lips though, and feels him take off the t-shirt and throw it across the room.  Then his hands are back on her ass, but one of them is searching out the zip of her skirt and, finding it loosens it so that when he stands them up—Arya yelping again—it falls to the ground at her feet.  “Bedroom?” he asks her.

She pulls herself loose and leads him across the living room, turning on the light and throwing herself onto the bed.  Gendry’s right behind her and, him shirtless and her skirtless, they begin again.  He moves more slowly now, his hips never stopping their gentle rubbing against her and—just because she can, she runs her hands up and down and up and down his chest, feeling the smoothness of his skin, caressing his nipples, twisting them gently between her fingers so that he inhales sharply and then—there’s his tongue again, sweeping into her mouth as she twists, moving desperately against her own and her heart rate is picking up and his hips are slowing—why are his hips slowing? She wants them to go faster—to move faster—to be constantly moving until she’s so wet that her underwear can’t absorb anymore and can only feel her slick swollen skin and—

He’s slipping off her now, lying on his side, his fingers toying with her underpants now—she feels them just above the damp cotton, sliding back and forth and she whimpers because fuck—this is torture and she should have known that he’d know how to draw this all out properly.  

“You like it?” he breathed in her ear.  She wants to whimper again—wants to call out and just tell him to get inside her already because god he’s worked her up into a frenzy, but instead she reaches a hand over and grabs his cock through his jeans and she hears him moan, his lips against her ear, breath hot on her skin.  She finds the fly of his jeans and undoes it, undoes the button too and runs her hand along his boxers, along his shaft, feeling the damp cloth just above the tip of his cock.  She rubs it, circling, slowly, and he matches her movement and oh fuck, why did she think this was a good idea, why did she think it could ever be a good idea because it wasn’t a good idea—it was a bad idea—a very bad idea, the very worst she’d ever—

His hands are gone now and his cock is gone from her grip and she sees him shimmying out of his pants and boxers and she takes the opportunity to unbotton her blouse and take off her bra, throwing both across the room and kicking off her shoes as well.  Then he’s back and god—his cock is so huge and beautiful, slightly darker in color now than it had been when he’d danced a few weeks ago, but she doesn’t care because the very sight of it is enough to make her heart race and all she really wants to do is touch it, to suck it, to ride it, to hold it in her hands while he humps against her.  But she doesn’t.  Instead, she looks at him and his eyes are bright with want but he’s not moving either and he’s not looking anywhere but her eyes and when he asks in a low voice, “Condom?”

“The pill. Are you clean?”

And he nods and waits.

“I am too,” she says, and he nods again, but still doesn’t move.  She cocks her head and he grins and leans forward, dragging her hips towards him and oh—that’s what he’s doing.

He’s kissing her lower stomach, and she feels as though the ground has disappeared from underneath her because her stomach is heavy, tight, waiting as his mouth sinks lower and lower and there—he’s licking her there, kissing her, tongue probing her as he had probed her mouth, and she feels his hands on her legs, fingers trailing up and down the sensitive flesh of her thighs and she moans again, moans because she can’t help, because she can’t stop, never wants to stop because even though it’s chilly and autumn and the heat is off she’s warm—so warm and all she wants is Gendry to keep licking and maybe to “Can you put a finger in?” and he complies sliding one finger and then—another whimper, another moan—another inside her, curling them slightly as he draws them in and out, rubbing along the stiff flesh just under her pubic bone and oh—she wants it to be his cock, but if it’s his cock, then she can’t have his tongue on her clit, circling, pressing, sucking until she can’t, she can’t, she can’t—

She wouldn’t be surprised if every vein in her body disconnected itself so forceful is her orgasm, so hard is her heart beating, her clit throbbing in his mouth, her cunt clenching around his fingers as she cries out, screams, calls, whispers, she doesn’t even know and there are tears in her eyes—tears because god this is more than she ever—more than she had ever—and he’s still licking and oh god it’s too much and she wants to pull away but if she pulls away then she’ll end it early and she wants to feel this way forever, feel as though she is infinity and the universe and everything, hot and cold and ice and fire and sex and Gendry all at once.

Her head is still reeling even when he pulls away, and her eyes are jammed shut even as she feels the tip of his cock—there it is— press gently against her entry.  “How you doing there?” he asks her gently, then laughs when she can’t reply.  She doesn’t care—doesn’t care that he teases her, doesn’t care that he’s laughing because he should laugh—if anyone has the right to it’s him because she can’t even move she’s hardly capable of thought beyond the feel of him slowly pushing into her, and her cunt—still throbbing, still hot and wet and wanting, stretching around him and his laugh turns into a groan and there are his lips again—on hers, tasting of her, of that scent she knew well from nights spent alone with her vibrator and the right kind of book.  She likes the taste of it in addition to the wine and the chocolate and the Gendry in his mouth.  It fits—it makes the rest blend perfectly into one another.

He starts off slow—which, she decides as her thoughts begin to make sense again, is good because there is no way—none at all that she would be able to handle it if he’d jackhammered into her.  Hard enough to handle the fact that his cock is so thick that her eyes roll into the back of her head with every thrust because the stretch of it is more than she’d ever imagined.  But he’s gentle, kissing her forehead, her nose, her eyelids, and whimpering slightly when her hands trail lightly up and down his spine.  And in and out he goes, in and out, and everything seems to fit together—the taste of his mouth, the sound of their stomachs slapping together, of his cock sliding in and out of her, the color of his eyes when they meet hers and go soft because blue and grey—those colors work so well together—as well as his cock and her cunt, fitting perfectly like a lock and key and she reaches up to hold his face even as he reaches down between them and gently circles a finger around her clit, just enough for her to tremble again, to feel her stomach roll again and her head begins to spin and this time, when she comes she’s staring into his eyes and feels like she sees forever there. 

He smiles as she comes again—and maybe he smiles because he knows he’s made her come twice, smiles because he likes watching her face as she falls apart beneath him, smiles because there’s something perfect about him—she isn’t sure.  But when she’s lying still, beneath him, kissing the base of his neck, his collarbones, his chin, his lips, his thrusts deepen, his speed increases and it isn’t long before he’s crying out, his face twisting, his eyes closed as she feels him spurt, hot and strong inside her.  He holds himself above her for just a moment, holds himself while his cock throbs and releases, then he collapses on her, his face slipping between her cheek and the pillow, pressing kisses to her cheek and ear in equal measure.  And she wishes his eyes had been open when he’d come—wishes that she could have watched him come apart as he’d watched her—but she doesn’t mind—not truly.  She knows, just knows as he tightens his arms around her and shifts slightly so that his cock is still inside her, but so that his weight isn’t completely crushing her, that, she’ll have the chance.


End file.
